


Unbalanced

by l0w3l



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Assault, Cancer, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Depression, Emetophobia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Heavy Angst, Hospitals, Hurt Jake Peralta, Hurt/Comfort, Lung Cancer, Major Illness, Vomiting, Whump, non-stop angst pretty much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29542980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l0w3l/pseuds/l0w3l
Summary: Lung cancer? "But I don't smoke," I told him like it would change the diagnosis. Jake angst/cancer fic.
Relationships: Jake Peralta/Amy Santiago
Comments: 14
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after AC/DC - Jake gets hurt on the job and neglects his health until he ends up in the hospital. Amy tells Jake she doesn’t want to date cops in the next episode, but I switched it to before AC/DC.

It was lonely now that everyone had gone back to work. They were all thinking about other things, being kept occupied with investigations or being distracted by personal conversation. I hated sitting alone in this hospital room. It was boring and white and way too clean for someone like me.   
I spent the mindless hours watching Netflix. I even finished one of the miniseries I was watching. It was about superheroes. As much as I loved thinking about cop stuff outside of work, I wasn’t actually a big fan of true-crime. Those shows always moved way too slow for me and I’d rather be working the case myself than being spoof-fed the solve.   
When my phone warned me I was on 5% battery, I decided to assess the possibility of just checking out against medical advice. Of course, after the talk Terry and I had about how I didn’t take care of myself, and how I was going down a path of self-destruction, he would be pissed if he came back to visit and found out. There’s always lying, but after how I tricked Charles, and forced Terry to come take care of me, I felt way too guilty for that. Besides, I knew that I should probably be taking Sarge’s lesson to heart. I had yesterday, but considering I have the memory of a goldfish, I was already starting to forget the importance of his lesson. The morphine had helped this at first, but even now that my body was starting to hurt again I still found myself pretending it was a nonissue. Bones healed, afterall. A perp murdering someone was permanent. I could deal with the pain if it meant that I had stopped something terrible from happening.   
Of course now, sitting in the hospital bed, temporarily crippled, I was not catching anyone.  
As hour five of sitting alone (only briefly relieved by the company of nurses who popped in to check in on me) approached, I finally gave in and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, preparing my escape.   
My entire body ached with the movement. A sharp pain jabbed my left side. I curled into myself and groaned, grabbing at my stomach. I was bruised all over, I had broken ribs, broken toes, fractured fingers, and my head was pounding all over. Even with the pain medication they fed me, everything still hurt. I wondered how terrible it was going to be without the pills, but I really had to get out of here, meds or not.  
Unfortunately, it was that moment that the doctor walked in. He regarded me with the edges of his mouth turned down. He was an older man, with perfectly cropped white hair and a meticulously trimmed beard. He looked down at me with silver rimmed glasses.   
“Heeey,” I smiled nervously, “Just going to take a whizz.”  
He looked unimpressed. “Mr. Peralta, how are you feeling?”   
His eyes bore into me. I shifted under his serious gaze. “I’m doing better,” I tried hard not to wince at the sharp pain that stabbed into my side.  
“Good,” he nodded and lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. It made me nervous how he was looking at me. “We are going to need to take some blood for testing.”  
“Testing? What testing?” Crap. It looked like my escape plan had been entirely foiled.   
He ran a hand through his beard, and consulted the clipboard. “Nothing to worry about yet, just customary testing.”  
My mouth fell open, but he had already turned to leave.   
So much for bedside manner. His weird demeanor had creeped me out. I frowned as I looked out the window. It was dark out. The squad would be getting off soon and going home to their respective families, while I sat here, in pain, wallowing in the consequences of my actions.  
A few minutes later, a heavy nurse bustled in. “Hi, baby,” she said sweetly, “How are we feeling?”  
It was irritating how people kept asking me how I was doing and expected a positive reply, “Terrible.”  
She began her work of preparing a needle and disinfecting my arm with a tiny sanitary cloth. “I’ll see about getting you something for the pain,” she told me, but otherwise looked entirely unaffected by the whiny answer, “You’re a cop?” she asked conversationally.  
“Yeah. I was injured in a foot-chase,” I told her proudly, always eager to discuss my job with civilians.   
“Oh, wow,” she said. She didn’t really sound interested, but to be fair, she was focusing on the task at hand.   
She angled the needle towards my arm and I turned away and grimaced. I didn’t like to admit it, but I hated needles. Just one more reason to never go to the doctor. There was a pinch as the needle broke the skin. I knew it was dumb to be cringing at this little thing, after I had been injured so fantastically, but I couldn’t help it.  
I sat quietly while she worked, trying to think of other things. “Almost done,” she broke the silence.  
“Great,” I wished I didn’t sound so strained.  
After what felt like ten minutes (how much blood could they need?), she withdrew the needle and was applying a band-aid to my arm. “Do you have any Ninja Turtles ones?” I grinned at her.  
“Only for the kids,” she reproached, looking unamused.  
“Awww.”  
As she began to meander away, she paused at the door, “Excuse me,” she sounded insulted.  
“Oh, sorry,” said a familiar voice.  
“Hm,” she sniffed and walked purposely past Terry.   
“Dang, what did I do?” Terry asked as he walked into the room, looking over his shoulder at where the nurse had just left.   
“Hi!” I sounded a little too excited.  
“Hey, Jake. Sorry the others couldn’t make it.”  
I hadn’t realized when Terry walked in by himself that the others weren’t right behind. I knew they were busy, and it was no one’s job to keep me company, but it still stung a bit. I was glad to see Terry nonetheless. It was childish to expect a band of my coworkers to show up just to cheer me up after I had gotten myself into this whole situation.  
“No big deal. It’s good to see you,” I tried to sound cool.   
Terry positioned himself beside my bed. “What was the nurse doing in here?”   
“Taking blood for tests I guess.”  
“What kind of tests?” he asked.  
I shrugged, then immediately regretted the action as a pain shot up my back to my shoulders. “Dunno,” the doctor had really not answered that question.   
I hadn’t realized Terry was holding anything until he tossed it on me, “Here, I got you something. Thought it might be better than hospital food.”  
I breathed in the fumes of the fast food bag. It smelled like French fries and grease. “Oh man, thanks, Sarge. I’m starving,” I was, but I hadn’t realized it until that second. My mouth was watering as I began to dig into the bag.  
“Jake, I’m sorry, but I can’t stay. I’ve gotta get home to put the girls to bed.”  
Of course, Terry had to leave. He had two children, and a pregnant wife. Of all of my friends, he was the busiest, which was a testament to what a good friend he was for being here at all. The excitement that had bubbled up from his appearance fizzled out, “Right, yeah, I was just about to fall asleep anyways. Tell the girls Jake says hi.”  
Terry gave me an affectionate smile. “You gonna be okay?”  
“Pfft. Me? I’m fine. I’m really loving this morphine, I think it’s my new thing.”  
The morphine had long since started to wear off and saying that out loud made the pain unignorable. I was careful not to grimace or flinch with pain when Terry regarded me.  
“Alright, I’ll see you later. Night, Jake,” he gave a sympathetic smile before turning to leave.  
“Night,” I smiled sadly as he walked out.   
It took me hours of laying in the dark before I fell into a light sleep. I normally slept like a log, but I was on edge in this strange environment. It’s almost three when I finally managed to drift off.


	2. Chapter 2

If Gina hadn’t left a phone charger with me yesterday, I would have lost my mind. Nobody stopped by before work. I was resentful for it, even though I knew I would probably do the same thing, especially considering I was always running late for work in the mornings, in a mad dash against the clock.   
I had been playing a phone game for thirty minutes when the doctor came back in. He was looking intently at a clipboard, stopping in front of my bed and taking a few more seconds to peruse whatever was on the paper. I wanted to know if he had any idea who I was or what was wrong with me without that clipboard.  
“Good morning, Mr. Peralta,” his voice was deep and powerful. He said it more like an announcement than a greeting.  
“Morning, Doctor,” I said in return.   
“We got your test results back,” he began, not wasting any more time on niceties, “We found something,” he paused, allowing a couple seconds for the statement to sink in. I hadn’t realized they were looking for something. That was what the blood tests were for, then?   
“What, like cancer?” I tried to laugh, but it came out as a strained, garbled sound.   
He gave me another serious look, as if to communicate the gravity of the situation. My stomach turned over and I could feel my heartbeat quicken. I wished he would get to it already. “You have stage one lung cancer. The good news is, we caught it early. This is treatable, but we have to start chemotherapy right away.”  
He was throwing one gut punch after the other. His words were moving way too fast, I could hardly keep up. My mind was whirling.   
That made no sense. I had never even smoked a cigarette before. I smoked a whole cigar once, when I was working undercover, but that was it, “But I don’t smoke,” I told him, like it would change his mind about the diagnosis.  
“About ten percent of lung cancer patients are non-smokers. Unfortunately, it happens.”  
“This can’t be for real,” I told him, “Are you sure?”  
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Peralta. We’ll have to take a scan, but after that, we can start treatment today.”  
“Today?” the world was spinning around me. How was this happening? I was supposed to be here for some stupid bruises and broken bones, not for cancer treatment. I couldn’t even wrap my mind around it yet.  
“It’s vital we start as soon as possible.”  
My mind was reeling with scattered thoughts, and I couldn’t pin any one down. I wished he would stop saying ‘we’. He wasn’t the one being slapped in the face with a cancer diagnosis.   
I realized my hands were shaking so I dug them into the mattress.   
“Chemotherapy?” I asked in a small voice. I didn’t have a quip to cover up the fear I was feeling; I couldn’t find any humor in the situation.  
“Chemotherapy will be intravenous. You’ll do one session once a week for four weeks.”  
“And that’s it?”  
“That’s the first cycle. Then we will see how your body responds to the chemo.”  
That was just the first cycle? I wanted to scream.   
“But,” I started, yet I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. There was nothing that would change what was happening.   
“I’ll give you a minute.”  
Once the room was empty, I didn’t feel like crying anymore. All I could do was stare straight forward at the boring off-white hospital walls. I didn’t know if I was really glad the doctor had left me here to stew in the bomb he had just dropped, but my mind wasn’t working anyways. When a moment ago, my thoughts were a hurricane, now all that I was able to do was stare mindlessly on.  
I didn’t know how much time passed before a different nurse came in and ordered me to change into a hospital gown. I didn’t answer her, and she looked awkwardly at me, before leaving in hopes that I had registered her request.  
“This sucks,” I said aloud.  
No one was here with me. I had pushed all my friends away with my obnoxious behavior, and now I was being punished. Okay, that was obviously overdramatic, but I hated being alone right now. I wished more than anything that Charles was here, even though he would probably be in a state where I would have to end up comforting him. It would still be a million times better than being alone.   
I listlessly undressed and draped on the gown. I fumbled with the door handle and exited the room, searching for the nurse who had been looking at me with such apprehension a minute ago. “I’m ready,” I informed when I finally spotted her.   
“This way,” she moved down the hallway. I followed obediently, and we entered a dark room with a sign on the door that read ‘Imaging’.   
She gave me that same nervous smile to indicate this was my stop, and disappeared out the door. I gazed around the room. The floor was black linoleum, the walls were grey and plain, and the only light was from a tiny windowed room in the corner. There was a man visible through the windows. He was looking closely at something, still having not so much as given me a glance.  
“Hi,” I squeaked, sounding small again.  
Finally, he looked up. He blinked repeatedly, like I had surprised him, then strode through the open door over to me, “Jacob Peralta?”  
“That’s me.”  
“Stand there, please,” he directed with a gesture towards a large machine. I walked in front of it, and looked at him for approval.  
“Turn left. Shoulders back. A little forward. Perfect.”  
He nodded at me, and walked back to his private office, “Hold still,” he called.  
I noticed my hands are still vibrating. I balled them into fists and held them close to my sides. Now that I had to stand still, I desperately wanted to wiggle around. I could feel all the pent up energy in my body. It didn’t help that my ribs chose that moment to start searing. I breathed in sharply and crouched forward, arms wrapped around my torso, “Ahhh,” I moaned.  
The doctor hurried back in the room, “What’s the matter?” he looked worried, and it was kind of nice to have someone, even a stranger, be concerned.  
“Nothing, just got into an accident earlier.”  
He considered this for a moment. When I pulled myself back together, straightened, and forced my shoulders back while holding in a cry of pain, he decided that it was okay. “Here, face forward,” he directed.  
We continued the process that kept me painfully aware of the tremors in my hands. When he announced that it was over, I was glad to be able to lay down again. It was embarrassing how much this short task had exhausted me.   
A nurse accompanied me back to my room, and ordered me to take a cup of assorted pills, before leaving. Finally alone, I hit the mattress hard and shut my eyes tightly. If I weren’t in this dumb hospital, I could probably sleep for fifteen hours straight.   
I picked up my phone and began to watch Netflix, but my brain was anywhere else. I exited out of the app and switched over to messaging.  
hey. I messaged Charles.  
Hi, Jakey. What’s up? Are you okay?  
He replied so fast, I hadn’t even considered what I would say to him yet. It’s not like I was going to text him the news. I had no idea how to break it to him, considering he would be more devastated than me.   
bored @ the hospital  
I’m sorry I can’t be there. I’ll come visit after work. Miss you.  
I would normally roll my eyes at the girly text, but today it made me well up. I wipe away the tears at the corners of my eyes. This was stupid.   
miss u 2 buddy  
I told myself I wasn’t being sentimental. If I couldn’t talk to Charles, who could I talk to? I thought about putting everybody in a group chat, and just dropping a hey i’ve got lung cancer text, but it was a brief, unserious consideration that I quickly waved away.  
I scrolled through my messages and hovered a thumb over Amy’s name. I clicked and type out a hurried text, pressing send before I could reconsider.  
sup   
It only took a few minutes for her to reply.  
Hey, sorry I haven’t been able to visit yet. I’ll come by tonight. How are you holding up?  
I knew when I messaged that she would feel guilty about not seeing me, but that didn’t matter right now. I hadn’t asked her out, but she sensed that I was going to and turned me down with her new no-dating-cops rule. Neither of us said out loud that that was what happened, but I think we both knew, and now things were weird between us.   
i have cancer I typed out the text and stared at it, before immediately erasing.  
eh mostly dying of boredom. any good cases?  
Nice try, Jake. You need to rest.  
ive been resting I added a sleepy emoji.  
Amy sent me an eyeroll emoji back and I unconsciously smiled.  
There was a knock at the door, and I snapped my head up, caught off guard by the sound of reality.  
“Come in.”  
The door opened and the doctor, followed by a nurse wheeling in a cart, entered.“ Mr. Peralta-”  
“Please, call me Jake,” I might have lost it if he called me ‘Mr. Peralta’ one more time.  
“Jake,” he repeated, “Are you ready to start chemo?”  
The sentence was a heavy one. I swallowed. “No doubt, no doubt, no doubt, no doubt…” the doctor raised an eyebrow. “Yeah,” I clarified.  
The nurse stopped beside me, and began to fiddle with the things on the table.  
“You have beautiful veins,” said the doctor.  
“Thank you?”  
“So we are going to do intravenous chemotherapy. That means the medicine will be entering your bloodstream directly. Each session only takes about fifteen minutes.”  
“Is it going to hurt?”   
“The session will not be painful. Afterwards, you’re going to feel fatigue. You may experience vomiting and diarrhea. The medication you took is going to help with the nausea.”  
As he talked, I grew sleepier. I tried my best to stifle a yawn.  
“The effects last about six hours. In the long term, you’re going to experience hair loss, dental decay, sores in your mouth and throat, constipation, possibly infertility-”  
“Oh my God,” I ran my hands down my face.   
The doctor looked pitying. “With any luck, the chemo will attack the cells. Because we caught it so early, there is a chance we might only have to complete one cycle.”  
I just nodded behind my hands. I’m scared if I say anything else I might start crying, so I just let the doctor do his work. All he does is insert a catheter into my arm, then attach the tube connected to the medicine bag hanging from a IV pole. It seemed like something a nurse could do, but I was glad the doctor was here anyways. I watched as he unclipped something around the tube and the medicine began to drip down. My heart was fluttering in my chest.  
“How long until I lose my hair?”  
“Usually two to four weeks after treatment begins.”   
He observed the bag of medicine. My eyes grew heavier and I closed them to rest momentarily. “I’m so tired.”  
“The medication you took is going to do that. You are welcome to sleep, if you are able.”  
I didn’t think you would be able to sleep during chemotherapy, but at some point I drifted off because when I came back to awareness, a huge tidal wave of nausea hit my stomach. I shot up from the bed, nearly tumbling to the ground in my haste. The doctor’s gone and the IV was no longer attached to me. I started scrambling to the bathroom, but I couldn’t stop the vomit that spewed out of my mouth before I was even half-way to the toilet. I grabbed at the nearby wall to steady myself, wiping away the wet substance dribbling down my chin, and made my way into the bathroom. I threw myself over the toilet, hunched and miserable. The vomit poured out of my mouth, thick from the food Terry had brought me. Between the bouts of throw-up, I coughed violently until my stomach dislodged more contents. First, chunks of semi-digested food came up. Then when there was no food left, I started throwing up bile. It was bitter and burned my throat like acid. When I finally had nothing left in my stomach to lose, I was wracked with coughs. I was exhausted, both my arms thrown over the seat of the toilet, and my head lolled onto my shoulder. I closed my eyes and attempted to even my breathing, counting to five on the breath in, holding for three, and counting five out. I could barely count to four when I started coughing again.  
I didn't know how long I was in the bathroom when a nurse knocked on the door with a bottle of water. She stooped down and helped me up, allowing me to balance on her arm. I fell into the bed and was drifting in and out of sleep so that when Amy came in, I didn’t think to wake up and pretend everything was okay. All I could think of was sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The morning started with a nurse rousing me by taking vitals. I know she didn’t mean to, and she was doing her job, but I can’t help resent her for it. The second I woke, I was clambering off the bed into the bathroom, my reprieve from nausea officially over.  
The nurses all but force fed me and I didn’t think I had ever drunk so much water in my entire life. The doctor came in to prescribe me a pharmacy of pills. Some were to fight off infection, some were vitamins, some were for nausea and the other side effects, but mostly I had drifted away as he talked, unable to hang on to the conversation for a long period of time.   
I couldn’t believe how tired I was. I don’t think I had ever been so tired in my life. “When can I go home?” I asked the doctor when he came back to my room for the second time that day.   
The doctor had seemed annoyed with the question, scrunching up his face and looking me up and down as if to say just look at you. “You’re seriously injured. You won’t be able to go home today. We will see tomorrow.”   
“Totally, uh-huh, right,” I said, agreeing with the doctor. When he left and the door shut behind him, I grinned to myself deviously, “Not.”  
It wasn’t much of a break out. Even standing up was an ordeal. I couldn’t straighten out my whole body - if I held my arm a certain way, it became a searing, unbearable pain. And I felt like a hunchback the way I had to bend over to alleviate some of the pain in my abdomen. One of the nurses came in to witness me dressing and gave me a frustrated speech about how I shouldn’t be checking out AMA and I wasn’t well and so on. I was only half-listening, mostly consumed by the task of trying to dress my aching body. When I finally was walking out, she stopped me by the arm.  
“You shouldn’t be driving,” she said.  
I shook my head. I had been rushed here for being hit by a car, so my junker wasn’t even in the lot. “I won’t,” I promised.  
She paused, looking at my face with concern. “It’s going to be okay, sweetie.”  
I swallowed hard and forced a smile, “Thanks.” I turned quickly, not wanting her to see the tears stinging the corners of my eyes.  
“See you next week,” she added as I walked away. A tear broke through and leaked down my cheek. I would be back here in just a week.   
I was glad when the Uber driver didn’t talk to me. My eyelids were heavy and I could barely keep up my head, much less a conversation.   
When I got home, the first thing I did was sprint to the bathroom. I was almost to the toilet when puke broke through my lips. Some trickled down my face and some hit the bathroom floor. I collapsed beside the toilet and threw my arms over it. I sat for forty-five minutes until my body no longer convulsed with dry heaves. When I was certain no more was coming, I crawled my way into the kitchen and opened the fridge door. I looked up at the contents from my spot on the tile. My stomach grumbled and I knew I was hungry, but everything looked terrible and thinking of it made my stomach weak, so I quickly shut it again.   
I decided to pull myself up, tired of being resigned to the floor and desiring a little dignity. I grabbed onto the edge of the counter and heaved myself. I groaned in pain, but managed to stand. I dragged myself to the couch and flopped down, grabbing the remote and switching on the TV. I was in desperate need of any distraction - from the pain, from the thought of Amy, the cancer… It was all too much.   
It wasn’t long after I switched on a documentary that I had fallen back asleep.   
I was awoken by a knock at the door. I must have been ridiculously on edge because I jumped up from the couch in fear, but immediately regretted it as my stomach churned from the sudden movement.   
I hobbled to the door, still holding myself delicately. All the pain meds must have worn off by now because my body hurts more than it did before. I wondered if I made the right decision leaving the hospital after all.  
When the door swung open, it revealed Terry’s tall figure standing in the doorframe. He had a threatening scowl on his face.   
“What’s up, Sarge?” I smiled sheepishly and stepped aside to offer him entrance.  
He stood still, refusing to step forward. “I went by the hospital and you weren’t there. I’ve been calling you. What’s going on?” upon finishing the sentiment, he moved past me into the living room.   
“They said I could leave as long as I got bedrest. And I’ve been sleeping, sorry I didn’t get your calls,” I felt bad lying, but there wasn’t much other choice now.   
I frowned and looked down. Was now the time to tell him about the cancer? Do I break it like the doctor broke it to me? Like a ton of bricks, all at once and with very little explanation? Terry was a grown man. He could handle it. Still, even thinking about telling him, the words got choked up in my throat.   
Terry sighed and relaxed his shoulders. “It’s alright. You might want to call Charles though, he was pretty upset last time I saw him,” he paused, regarding me, and I stiffened, “Are you okay?”  
It was then, when I looked at him, I realized something. As much of a made-for-tv movie that a cancer-having cop sounded like, you couldn’t work on the force while you’re in chemotherapy. Not while you were sick, and your body was fragile, and they couldn’t be sure what kind of liability you would be. As soon as I gave up the information, my job was out of my hands. They would take it away and I’d be left sitting alone in my room, in the dark, between trips to the bathroom to vomit, and weekly visits to the hospital to have poison pumped into my veins.   
I nodded, but Terry still looked concerned, especially since I had been quiet for a decent moment. “I mean, I’m still sore, but it’s not as bad. The doctor said I should be cleared within two weeks,” I wanted to smack myself. I hated that I kept lying to Terry, but I had to downplay it all if I wanted to keep my job. No, I more than wanted to keep my job - I needed to keep my job. Especially right now. Even I had to admit I wasn’t ready to walk into work at this very moment, but a week seemed like a grindingly long time. And I had an appointment next week, so I needed at least a day or two to recover from that.   
“Do you need me to pick up your meds?” Terry asked, surveying the counter for medicine. The idea of leaving my apartment made my body ache, but I could never possibly explain the plethora of prescriptions he would be picking up.  
“Don’t worry, my mom is already getting them for me,” as soon as I mentioned my mom, a feeling of absolute dread hit me. I hadn’t even thought about telling Mom. She would lose it.   
We exchanged a few more sentiments, I tried to think of ways to be light-hearted, but I was sure I just came off as exhausted. And I was, beyond anything, totally drained.   
I didn’t want to call Charles. It was already getting dark outside and it didn’t help my desire to fall back down on the couch and sleep for twelve hours. But I had to, considering what a shit friend I had been recently. The screen read 9 missed calls, five from Charles, three from Terry, and one from Amy. There were three new voicemails, but I couldn’t bear to listen at the moment. I just clicked Charles’ name and pressed the call icon.   
“Hey, buddy,” I said tentatively when he picked up.  
“Jake! I was so worried about you. Terry said you weren’t at the hospital, and you weren’t picking up your phone.”  
“Yeah, I’m sorry,” I rubbed the bank of my neck, “I should have told you guys I was going home, and then I just passed out. Turns out getting hit by a car kind of sucks.”  
“I’m sorry,” he offered, sounding genuinely sympathetic, “Let me make you some eel broth, it really helps with the muscle aches. The natural mucus of the skin has been used to heal since-”  
“Ah, bup bup bup, that’s okay, I really don’t want to hear about eel mucus right now,” I grimaced. The thought alone was making my stomach uneasy.  
“I’m just saying, you should try it,” he said lightly, unphazed by my disgust at his eating habits. “There is no way I am ever going to try that.”  
We spoke a little more, but I had a hard time following, and he had to leave soon anyways to be with Genevieve. After we got off the phone, I pressed it beneath my chin and stared into the kitchen in thought. I kept thinking about how it would just take three words to change things, and how Charles would comfort me just like I wanted to be comforted. I wanted to tell my best friend about this huge thing, and I couldn’t, and none of it seemed fair. I felt alone, and selfish for feeling that way, considering my friends were all around me and it wasn’t their fault they didn’t know.   
I pulled my phone away from my face and opened up my contacts. I pressed on her name and put the phone up to my ear, chewing my lip as the tone began to ring.  
“Hi, Honey, what’s up?” my mom sounded like she was doing other things.  
“Hey, Mom,” I gulped, not sure where to go next, “Can I come over?”  
\--  
I got in my car and put the keys in the ignition before changing my mind and calling an Uber. I just couldn’t drive right now, as tired as I was, and the fact that it was getting dark and harder to see would have just made it that much worse.  
The driver made small talk with me, and I did my best to reply, but it was hard to care about any of it and the whole conversation bored me.   
When I got to the front door, Mom called for me to open it.   
“You shouldn’t leave the door unlocked,” I told her as I walked into the kitchen where she was positioned in front of the stove.  
“It’s not a big deal, I would hear someone if they came in,” she said.  
“What does that help? What are you making?” It smelled delicious, which was surprising because she had never been much of a cook.   
“Fried chicken. I got this new recipe book and I make something new every night. I’ve been trying to learn new things, open up my horizons, you know,” It was funny how my mom could sound like a hippie, but she never had been one, “Anyways, what did you want to talk to me about?”  
I leaned over and looked at the food cooking on the stove and my mouth watered. “It can wait till after dinner,” I decided.  
“Will you grab me some plates?” I always could appreciate the way she moved on from one subject to another so quickly. I helped her plate the food. My dad was working tonight, so it was just us two.  
Except for thanksgiving and other important events, we usually just ate on the couch, in front of the TV, but something in me paused as she began to head towards the living room.  
“Wait. Do you think maybe we could eat at the table?”   
She turned and raised her eyebrows in surprise, but nodded with a “sure,” so we seated ourselves at the table.   
“What have you been up to?” she eyed me. My mom could be an airhead, but I knew I was acting strange.  
I finished chewing my bite. The chicken was good, if not a little unevenly cooked, but it’s not a bother to me and I wouldn’t want my mom to feel bad about it. “This is great, Mom,” she said nothing in return, so I relinquished. “I got hurt at work.”  
“Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?” she sounded like she was trying to broach the subject as sensitively as possible. So she was worried about it.   
I stopped, about to bite into another piece, before placing it back on the plate. I heaved a deep sigh and she watched, still gnawing on her chicken.  
“Look, Mom,” I rubbed my hand across the bottom of my face, “I had to go to the hospital, and when I was there, they took some tests,” she stopped chewing and her face became stony, “I didn’t know, but they were looking for cancer. And it turns out that they found something. I have lung cancer.”  
She burst into tears. “Cancer? I can’t believe this. Not my little boy,” I suddenly felt like I was dying, and up to this point, I hadn’t really considered that I could die. The doctor had tried to make it sound so treatable at the time, but my mom crying like I was on death row had me feeling like a dead man.   
She got up and moved over to me, wrapping her arms around me. I sighed and leaned in to the touch, allowing myself to be enveloped in the hug. It was the parental comfort that I had been craving and I felt myself starting to tear up again. “I’m scared,” I whispered.  
“It’s all going to be okay, baby,” she told me. I felt like a child, with no control in the world, and a need to be protected. We sat like that for a long time, she cooed to me while we both cried.


	4. Chapter 4

Picking up the pills the next day was an ordeal. I couldn’t afford to Uber everywhere, so I had to drive, which consisted of constant gasps of pain and way too many close calls. My insurance was fine, but I had to split the payment onto multiple cards anyways. There were so many bottles, I could barely believe it. The pharmacist explained to me how to take them and when and whatever else I should know, but there was way too much to retain. I thought it was on the bottles anyways, so why he spent ten minutes going over each and every pill with me was a wonder.  
I walked briefly through the aisles of the grocery store, trying to find anything to stomach. Unfortunately, all the things that looked good were super unhealthy. I thought of how Amy wouldn’t approve as I piled things in the basket, but it’s all I could eat.  
When I got home I decided it was time to take a shower. I smelled terrible since I hadn’t bathed since the accident. I turned the water up hot, delicately undressed, and waited with a hand resting on the wall. When I stuck my hand under the stream and felt it was sufficiently warm, I stepped into the tub. The droplets pelting my bruised skin stung. “Ow ow ow,” but soon my skin became numb and I was glad for the heat.   
As I massaged shampoo on my scalp, I thought about how much I loved my hair. It was soft and full. Once it started falling out, I wouldn’t be able to hide it from the squad anymore.   
I was distracted by my stomach growling. For the first time since I got home from the hospital, food actually sounded good. I was excited to finish up and make some macaroni. Could I have beer? I didn’t remember the doctor mentioning anything about it. “I already have cancer, I may as well have a beer,” I announced. The second the words are out of my mouth, a strange feeling came over me. My vision spotted and I felt faint. I began to fall over, but managed to cushion my fall with my hands.  
“Ahhhhh,” I groaned in pain. I had hit my thumb fracture from the car chase and my bruised arms from the car crash. Maybe cars were the problem.   
I sat on the shower floor, feeling dejected by my inability to so much as stand until I got bored. I was too hungry to dwell long on this particular incident.   
I was boiling water when there was a knock at the door. I looked at my counter, decorated with what must have been a dozen little, orange bottles and swept them into a drawer.   
I took a deep breath of preparation as I stood in front of the door before opening it.   
There was Amy, smiling softly at me. She looked kind and beautiful, like always, but also troubled.  
“Amy,” I couldn’t help but grin seeing her there.   
“Hey, Jake. I didn’t mean to just drop in, but you didn’t answer my call,” a wave of guilt washed over me.  
“I’m sorry, my bad. I’ve been hibernating since the hospital.”  
“It’s okay,” she put up a hand to stop me from continuing with the excuses. She must think I was avoiding her because of all the awkwardness, and, as much as I would love to claim I hadn’t even thought about it since the cancer diagnosis, that wasn’t true, “How are you doing?”  
“Oh - water’s boiling. Come in,” I said, hurrying back to the kitchen. I dumped the box of pasta in as Amy followed me inside.  
“The squad misses you,” she told me, sitting down on one of the barstools. Was she saying she missed me?  
“Of course you do.”  
“You think we just stop existing when you’re not around, don’t you?” I could feel her faux disapproving stare even facing away.  
“Do you not? And do you want some macaroni?” I asked, turning to see her. The apartment was mostly dark from me turning the blinds up, but the light that did manage to seep out filled the room with an afternoon glow. The orange tint made her look like a painting.   
“What are you looking at?” I realized she had answered, but I didn’t hear.  
I turned back quickly, hiding my reddening face. “Nothing. Do you want macaroni?”  
“I just said no,” she didn’t sound mad, just worried.   
I stirred the pot non-stop, glad for the excuse not to be looking directly at Amy. I needed to stay in the moment, to stop acting weird, to not be distracted with my thoughts of telling her about the cancer. “I just couldn’t believe you. My macaroni is a delicacy.”  
“I have a hard time believing that,” she scoffed.  
“Anything interesting at work?” At first I thought she was going to scold me from inquiring about work, when she finally answered.  
“Captain Holt got into a standoff with Hitchcock and Scully about food at their desks.”  
“I’m guessing Hitchcock and Scully won that one?”  
“They did,” she laughed, “And I arrested this guy for- Jake!”  
Out of nowhere, I almost fell. I didn’t feel faint, just completely lost my balance. I grasped onto the counter for purchase. She rushed to my side and was holding out her hands, as if unsure where to put them to help.   
“Are you okay?” she asked, panicked.   
All of my pain was flaring up at once and it was taking all of my power not to cry out, so I just nodded. I knew it was unconvincing, but it was the best I could do. “It’s just the meds make me woozy. It’s what I imagine doing drugs is like.”  
“I don’t think that’s what doing drugs is like. I’ll finish making this, just sit down.”  
I wanted to argue, but it sounded like such a fantastic proposition and I wasn’t even sure I could keep standing up, so I hobbled to the chair Amy had just been sitting in. I watched as she stirred, but we didn’t say much. I thought about breaking the silence. I have cancer. She would drop the spoon and spin around with a look of horror. She would tell me it was going to be okay, and go to chemo with me. Maybe she would realize how much I meant to her and things could change between us.   
But all of that was day-dream self-indulgence. So I bit my tongue and tried to make light-hearted conversation. I didn’t think it worked, but I tried to force it anyways. We couldn’t escape the awkwardness, it seemed. I wondered if maybe I should just get it out of the way and tell her I knew she didn’t like me, it’s okay, I wouldn’t pursue it, and she didn’t have to worry. I knew full well that would just make it worse though. It felt like I couldn't say anything that I really meant to her.   
She finished cooking and served me and we sat for a few minutes while I ate before she excused herself to leave.   
She stopped as she walked out the door. “Are you going to be okay?” I was sick of people asking if I was going to be okay, but it was Amy this time, so I smiled and nodded.  
“I’m okay, really.”   
She looked mildly comforted by the lie.

It was five days until I had chemo again. Five days of sitting around at home, getting calls from my crying mom, puking, and an absence of work to distract me. I was dreading the sixth day, chemo day, but after that I was going to go back to work. I would need to give myself a day to recover, but then I would get back to it. I tried not to think about how hard it would be to hide. Right now, I needed to focus on the positive.  
My mom sat in the chair beside me as we waited for the nurse to take me back with her. I tapped my feet on the white linoleum. The whole thing only took about fifteen minutes - it was the waiting that drove me the most insane. I was about to burst when a nurse finally pulled us back.   
We sat in a small room with a connected bathroom that I was relieved to see. The nurse came in to give me a paper cup of pills and we waited another thirty minutes until the doctor came back.  
“Does it hurt?” Mom squeaked as the needle was inserted into my skin.   
“No,” it wasn’t a lie. The process wasn’t painful. It was the afterwards that was hellacious, but she already looked freaked out enough. “You still haven’t told Dad, right?”  
She looked somber. “He deserves to know.”  
“You told him?”  
“No, I didn’t tell him, but I really think you should. He loves you, he would want to know.”  
I shook my head. I didn’t want to hear it, even if it was true. Not right now, in this chair, as the meds were hitting and sleep was beginning to sound so enticing. “Just not yet.”  
Once again, I hadn’t realized I had fallen asleep until I was awake and sprinting as best I could to the toilet. Mom walked in and rubbed little circles on my back. I thought about how badly I had needed it last time around.   
The vomit burned my throat and my mouth tasted disgusting and acidic. I took delicate sips of the water bottle she procured.   
A song began playing from the room. My ringtone. “Mom, can you grab my phone for me?” She looked at me, apparently unsure of whether I should be taking phone calls right now, but got up anyways. I anxiously waited while she seemed to be taking her time. I was worried the call was about to drop when she returned, cell phone in hand. I accepted it quickly and saw the name on the phone: Captain Holt. It had been Cap’n previously, but he had seen and insisted I changed it. I swiped open the call.  
“Hi, Captain,” my voice came out hoarse despite my best efforts to sound normal.   
“Detective Peralta,” he began.  
“Good morning to you too,” he was so to the point, but I loved his consistency, no matter how I teased.   
“It is three in the afternoon.”  
“Eh.”  
“I am calling to inquire when you will be returning to work,” he said.  
It was weird to think about that, crouched in front of the toilet, one hand holding up my phone, the other holding my stomach. An excitement bubbles up in my chest. Today was Tuesday. As much as I didn’t want to, it was only logical to give myself a whole day to recover.  
“Thursday.”  
“And you’re sure you will be well enough?” his tone was one of concern.   
“Yup!” I said, immediately ending the call. It was a miracle I had managed to go the entire call without vomiting or coughing, so it was time to pay. I hacked so hard my stomach ached.  
“You’re going back to work?” Mom asked, having listened to the entire phone call. “They don’t know?” she made the connection.   
I shook my head and waited until I was sure I wouldn’t start puking to answer. “It’ll be fine. I’ll tell them soon,” even I could hear what a weak excuse it was.   
“You can’t be working in your condition.”  
It was a rational statement. An obvious one. But it frustrated me. I knew that it wasn’t going to work, but I didn’t want to face it. I sighed deeply. “Please, Mom.”  
She didn’t argue anymore.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This characterization takes place during season 2. Please keep that in mind, as Captain Holt is much different in season 2 than, say, season 7.

I leaned over the body and inspected the blood pooled on the vic’s shirt. He was a husky man with a brown and greying mustache. Multiple stab wounds. Scratch marks on his face. A bump the size of a tennis ball on his forehead.   
“Looks like he put up a decent fight,” I observed.  
Charles nodded, scribbling something in his notebook. “Lot of blood for one guy.”  
“Yeah. Definitely not just the vic’s blood. No signs of a break-in. Where’s the spouse?” I noticed the wedding band on his thick, sausage fingers.   
“Tracy Willmen. No sign of her. Put out an APB. Not much of a life insurance policy either.”  
It would be easy to assume it was the spouse. I mean, it usually was, but this was my first case back after a week and a half and there was no way I was going to let it be that boring.   
I stood upright and when the edges of my vision spotted, I was careful not to lose my balance. When the world came back into full clarity, Charles was already moving towards the door to another room. I headed to the kitchen and began to inspect the counters and cupboards. There was a save the date on the fridge for a wedding that took place three days later, a few pictures of the couple together and some random decorative fridge magnets. I leaned in closer and studied the pictures. They looked perfectly happy, but who would hang a picture of themselves looking sad? I withdrew my phone and took a picture of the invitation.   
I head back to the room Charles disappeared into. “Anything?”   
He shook his head, looking regretful. “Nope. You got anything?”  
I waved the picture on my phone, “I say we start with them.”   
We walked back to the car. Charles drove us back to the precinct. We had work to do - it would take a while for the forensics to come back on the DNA and fingerprints, but until then there were things that could be done.  
When we returned to the precinct, things were in full-gear. Gina was on the phone while buffing her nails, Rosa was sifting through papers with a severe expression, and Amy was seated at her desk across from mine, taking careful notes. She glanced up when I sat down.   
“Hey, Jake. How does it feel to be back?”  
“Pretty great, already got a sweet murder and Charles bought me fro-yo,” she looked reproachful, “What are you working on?”  
“Paperwork for the case we just finished.”  
“Ohh, sounds like fun,” I smiled.   
She nodded sincerely and began writing again, but paused without looking up, she said, “Are you feeling better?”  
“Are you kidding? You do remember the murder and the fro-yo?”  
“It’s just that you seemed a little…”  
“I’m great. A few broken bones never hurt anyone,” I knew that she was referring to the way I had nearly fainted in front of her in my apartment, but it was something I wanted us both to forget.  
She bit her lip, but didn’t push. “Okay.”  
Charles appeared over my shoulder, saving me from any continuation of the awkward conversation. “Hey, Jakey. Sorry I took so long, I was in the bathroom-”  
“Bup bup bup,” I interrupted, holding up a hand, “That’s okay, buddy. I was just seeing what I could find about the wife’s family. Maybe she’s hiding out with one of them.”  
“Good idea,” Charles praised, “I’ll see about the vic’s family.”  
“Cool,” I was excited to jump into the case. It was easier to shove everything else to the back of my mind when I had work to distract me.   
I was scrolling through names in the database when the captain approached my desk. “Detective Peralta.”  
“Captain,” I smiled, “Missed you.”  
“I trust you are doing well since you have returned to work.”  
“Aw, you’re giving me the warm fuzzies,” I teased.  
“Should you need a break or time off, you are welcome to do so.”  
“Thanks, Cap-i-tan, but I’m great.”  
Captain Holt nodded stoically. “Very well. We are glad to have you back.”  
“Glad to be back,” I replied honestly.   
After Charles and I gathered the information we needed, we decided to take off. I was anxious to get away from an office of people double-checking that I was fine when I was in fact not fine and could barely admit it to myself, much less anyone else.  
“Alright,” I said from my position in the passenger seat of the cruiser, “let’s see what the happy couple has to say.”  
“Right, the STD,” Charles referred to the Save-the-Date.  
“Nope,” I shook my head with a thin lipped grimace.  
We arrived at the apartment, a building packed into the city grid, about ten stories tall. We rode up the elevator and I anxiously waited, tapping my foot. When we knocked on the door, the woman from the card answered. “Hello?” she asked tentatively.  
“Hi, Donna Reeve?”  
“Yes?”   
“We have some questions for you regarding your friends, Tracy Willmen and Doug Evans.”  
“Oh. Are they okay?” I was always trying to get a read on people, even if they weren’t suspects. She did look genuinely concerned. Of course, there was no way to be sure, but my gut instinct told me she was going to be honest with us and that excited me.   
“Can we come in?” I asked.  
We settled onto the couch in her living room and she brought out three cups of coffee, setting one down in front of each of us before she lowered herself into the armchair opposite the sofa.  
“What’s going on?” her eyebrows furrowed and her light blue eyes filled with worry.   
I took a sip of the coffee. It was unsweetened. I tried not to make a face as I set it back on the table.  
“Doug was murdered,” Charles said bluntly. Donna gasped and held a hand over her mouth. “And Tracy’s missing. Were these close friends of yours?”  
She took a shaky breath before answering, “I’ve known Tracy since high school. We drifted apart for a while, but recently we became close again,” she wiped a tear, “I don’t understand how this happened.”  
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” I said, “Do you know if Doug was abusive to Tracy?”  
“No, they had been married a long time. Maybe they weren’t in their honeymoon phase anymore, but Doug and Tracy loved each other. She told me as much. Everyone has a soul mate,” she looked into my eyes, “They were soulmates. No matter what happened, they would stay together. I can promise you that.”  
I shivered and shifted in my seat. I didn’t think about things like soulmates usually. It seemed frivolous and silly, but when she said it, Amy appeared in my mind. I suddenly felt very tired and picked up the coffee again, draining it into my mouth. I jumped to my feet and both Charles and Donna looked at me in confusion. “Where’s your bathroom?”  
She pointed, “Second doo-”  
I was already running down the hall. I held my hand against my mouth in an attempt to stop from vomiting all over her nice hardwood floor. I broke into the bathroom door and unintentionally slammed the door behind me. Some vomit spilled from my mouth and down my shirt before I could reach the toilet. I threw myself over it and wretched, all the coffee poured out of my mouth and the frozen yogurt from earlier slid up my throat. I hacked up the rest of the contents of my stomach for a couple minutes when there was a knock at the door.  
“Jake? Are you okay?”  
I wiped my hand across my mouth and took a deep breath. “I’m alright. I’ll be out in a minute. Just finish getting her statement,” I hated to miss out on anything having to do with an investigation, but it was the smartest thing for him to take care of business while I was blowing chunks in this fancy, marble bathroom.  
When my stomach settled, I rose, holding one hand against the wall. I washed my face in the sink and did my best to clean the vomit off my button-up and tie. My eyes were red like I had been crying.  
I swallowed and stared hard at myself in the mirror. “You’re fine,” I said sternly.  
I ignored Charles’s concerned looks as we exited the building and made our way to the car. “What’d I miss?” I quickly tried to stop him from questioning me.  
“Tracy has one kid, but she’s estranged from her,” I nodded, “She said they were happy together, but Tracy was depressed about something, but never told her what. Are you okay, Jake? What happened in there?”  
I groaned internally. “Nothing, I just ate some bad shrimp.”  
“When?” Charles looked thoughtful. He had been with me for the past several hours. It was a flimsy excuse.  
“I have a good feeling about the kid,” I told him as we climbed into the vehicle. If they were estranged, they might have something a little more negative to say than they were soulmates. “We’ll start with Doug Jr. Little Dougie. Dougie Jay. DJ,” I listed off nicknames.   
Charles looked pensive, but didn’t pry. I plugged my phone in to play music, eager to fill the silence. I tried to think of where Tracy had run off to. Where would I go if I was a murder victim’s spouse who also possibly killed the victim? I ran a hand through my hair when I felt something in my hand. I inspected it and saw that I had pulled out some of my hair. I gasped.  
Charles looked over and I hid it by my side. “What’s up?”   
“Nothing, I just twisted my fractured thumb,” you knew things were bad when I was saying I was in pain as a cover-up. I hated to admit weakness or vulnerability. When he returned his full attention to the road, I looked back down at my hand. A chunk had come out, more than just a few strands. It felt dry and dead. I threw it between the seat and the door so that Charles wouldn’t see.   
“I’ll tell her,” Charles spoke.   
“Huh?”  
“About her dad. You don’t have to.”  
“Right. Right,” I had forgotten that this was someone with a real tie to the victim. Telling people that their loved ones had died was one of the worst parts of the job. It was nice of Charles to offer. He usually went out of his way to take care of me, but I sensed that he was especially careful not to let that responsibility fall on me today. I almost wanted to protest, to pretend I was fine, but I was grateful for the privilege.   
I wondered if more of my hair would fall out while I was with Charles. I needed to go home, to look in the mirror and see if it was noticeable. I didn’t know if it had fallen out because I irritated it or I had just dragged out hair that was already gone. I guess I had believed that maybe I was the exception to the rule, I wouldn’t lose my hair, or at least it would take weeks to happen. I was shaken and distracted.  
I didn’t realize that we had reached the location and Charles had parked the car until he said, “Jake,” and woke me from my daze.  
“Yup,” I threw open the door and hopped out of the car, nearly falling down as soon as my feet hit the ground. “Yup...” I said again, this time darkly, to myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t worry if you don’t care for the investigation. It is not going to be a major part of the story or anything.


	6. Chapter 6

I knocked on the door and a woman answered. She had to be in her mid-thirties, stout, with straw-like blonde hair and a scowl. “What do you want?” she asked gruffly.  
“Louisa Evans?”  
She grunted.  
“Ma’am, we have some news about your father.”  
“What, is he dead?” she sounded apathetic.  
Charles and I exchanged glances. “Doug Evans passed away yesterday. Actually, he was murdered,” Charles informed and waited for a reaction. The woman continued to look bored, her face not morphing into grief or shock at all. Charles cleared his throat. “May we come in?”  
“Don’t see why you need to,” we stood awkwardly for a moment until she shrugged, “But whatever.”   
She allowed us in the house. It was full of boxes stacked on boxes. The once-white carpet was stained yellow and brown. An odor of urine reeked through the apartment. The couch that was piled with books and garbage and no room to sit, faced an outdated, jumbo TV.   
When Louisa made no move to initiate the conversation, Charles began, “Your mother, Tracy, is missing. We want to know if there were any problems in their relationship that you knew of.”  
“Ha. I wouldn’t know. Haven’t talked to either of ‘em for seventeen years.”  
“Why is that?” I pressed.  
“They were shit parents. Soon’s I turned eighteen, I left and never looked back. They don’t care. We never really liked each other.”  
“Were your parents abusive?”  
“Abusive?” she considered, “No, just didn’t pay much attention to me.”  
“Were they abusive to each other?” Charles questioned.  
“Not that I know. Just miserable.”  
“They were unhappy?”  
She laughed coldly. “You could say that. We was always broke ‘cause of Dad’s gambling. Ma didn’t care much for working either. Never hit each other or anything like that, though.”  
“Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt them?”  
“I just told you I don’t talk to them. I’ve got things to do, is there anything else you want?”  
“Oh you’re packing?” I asked, looking at the boxes.  
“No,” she narrowed her eyes at me, “Why?”  
“Uh, no reason.”  
She ushered us out of the apartment.   
I grinned at Charles.  
“He’s a gambler,” Charles stated. It was our first solid clue.  
“He was a gambler,” I corrected.  
Charles said something, but I couldn’t hear. My vision spotted. I blinked hard and pulled myself back to reality. “You think you could drop me off at home?” I asked.  
“Of course,” Charles studied me. Even though it was five and the work day was technically over, we both knew it was bizarre for me to want to stop in the middle of a case.   
He drove me back to my place, neither of us saying much at all. I thanked him, declined his offer to hang out, and nearly collapsed when I finally got inside the apartment.  
I pressed my back against the wall and slid to the floor. My energy was totally depleted. I felt like I’d run ten miles rather than spent the day mainly sitting in the car and meandering into and out of apartments. After a couple minutes of catching my breath, I stood and headed towards the kitchen. I opened a drawer and began to sort through the pills, trying to figure out which ones I was supposed to be taking right now. I downed a handful, grabbed a beer out of the fridge, and plopped in front of the TV to whatever game was on.  
A few hours later I recalled that I hadn’t eaten in ages and the little bit of food I consumed, my body rejected. I grabbed another beer and nursed it while I scavenged for food. Everything looked gross again. I was tired of needing to eat and never being hungry. I eventually settled on making a sandwich that took me an hour of nibbling to eat entirely.

I woke up late the next morning and discovered that I had fallen asleep on the couch. I picked up my phone and saw it had died and I missed my alarm. I looked at the microwave clock and read that it was half past nine. I was way late. It wasn’t even dark when I fell asleep; I must have slept twelve hours.   
I ran to my room on wobbly legs and changed into a fresh pair of clothes before heading to the bathroom. I picked up my toothbrush before remembering what happened the previous day. I inspected my head and observed that the place where my hair had fallen out was noticeably thinning. I held my hand over it to check the rest and saw that otherwise it seemed okay. A problem for another day, I decided, putting it out of my mind. I picked up my toothbrush to hurriedly clean my teeth, but spat it out the second it passed my lips.   
“Owwwwww,” I said as I opened my mouth to investigate. On my tongue and the inside of my cheeks were a number of white and yellow oval-shaped ulcers. I made a disgusted face. Now I had to hide this too. I was an expressive person; I would have to make sure I didn’t hold my mouth open too long like I liked to do in feigned shock or exaggerated grins. I groaned emphatically. “Awesome.”

I arrived at the precinct around ten. I was usually running late, but only by five or ten minutes. Thirty at the most.   
I did my best not to make a scene when I stepped in, just quietly walked to my desk and threw myself in my chair. Amy looked up from her work. “Jake, where have you been? Are you okay?”  
I pressed my forehead against the desk dramatically. “I wish people would stop asking me that.”  
“Sorry,” she sounded hurt and I instantly flooded with guilt.  
“No, I’m sorry. I’m just grouchy that I overslept,” I became more irritable every day. ‘Grouchy’ was a nice way to put it. I was frustrated that I was still exhausted and could fall asleep if I just rested my head on the desk a few more minutes, I was resentful to my friends that they didn’t know what was wrong despite the fact that I was hiding it from them, and I was indignant at the unfairness of it all. I thought about pulling Amy onto the balcony and telling her what was going on so that I could have one confidant outside of my mom, who was handling this somehow worse than I was.  
“Jake,” Charles’s voice interrupted my self-pitying, “Hey, we’ve got Tracy in Room One. I was waiting for you to start the interrogation. They found her car early this morning at a motel called Budget Inn Number Forty-Seven.”  
“Sounds classy.”  
“It’s actually next to a fantastic insect restaurant - fried tarantula, Moroccan wax-worm salad, cricket cheesecake-”  
“You’re actually going to make me sick,” I told him without hyperbolizing. I followed him to the interrogation room and peered through the window to see her. She looked worn out, her hair was tangled, she was thin, and even from a distance, the purple bruise on her right eye was visible.  
“Alright,” I cracked my neck, “Let’s do this.”  
When I opened the door, she glanced at me. She appeared frightened and anxious. I felt a twinge of pity for her, then reminded myself she could be a murderer.  
“Tracy Willmen,” Charles spoke first, “This interview is being recorded. Do you understand?”  
“Yes,” she squeaked.  
“Okay. Where were you two days ago at ten AM?” Charles referenced the approximate time that Doug had been murdered.  
“I was with my husband.”  
“And how long were you with your husband?”  
“I left around eleven thirty.”  
“Did you see who killed your husband?” I asked.  
“Yes,” her voice was small. She stared at the black tabletop.  
“Who was it?” I grew exhilarated. It was rare for us to get somewhere so quickly in an investigation.  
She met my gaze with teary eyes. “Me,” she whispered.  
“You killed your husband?”   
“Yes.”  
“Why?”  
She took a deep breath and flitted her eyes to the ceiling, as if trying not to let her tears fall. “He beat me.”  
“How long was he beating you?”   
“Years. Since we were married,” She spoke almost too hastily. Something felt off.  
“How did you kill him?”  
“I- I stabbed him.”  
“What instigated you?”  
“He was hurting me. He hit me, see,” she gestured to the bruise on her face.   
“Did he hit you anywhere else?”  
She hesitated and fell into thought. “No,” she answered finally.  
“What was it-” there was a knock on the door. I could see one of the techs from DNA Evidence through the window, “Excuse us.”  
Charles and I both rose and left the room, filing into the hall. “I’ve got the results back. All the blood that wasn’t the victim’s belonged to a third person. Couldn’t have been Tracy. The scratch marks on his face were the only wounds we found with her DNA in it. Autopsy says it’s possible that the scratching took place after he was already dead,” he handed us a file that I flipped briefly through and saw it was full of photos of the corpse.   
“Why would she lie?” I wondered.  
“And where did she get the bruise?” Charles asked.  
“Maybe she Gone Girl-ed it,” we locked eyes. She had given herself the bruise. “I have an idea.”  
We re-entered the dimly lit room and seated ourselves at the table, inspecting her. She shifted under our stares.  
“We know about the debt,” I said gravely.  
“Wha- what debt?” her eyes fluttered around the room, anywhere but us.   
“Tracy. We can’t help you if you keep lying to us,” I continued. She looked like she was about to break. “We know almost all of what happened, all we need is for you to fill in the blanks. Let us help you.”  
She began to weep and covered her face with her hands. “It’s okay,” Charles said sweetly.  
“I watched him die. I tried to stop it,” she said between sobs, “they told me they would kill me if anyone found out. I hated scratching him… I just thought it would make it seem like I had done it. I don’t know. I don’t know what I was thinking. I loved him. He didn’t deserve to die that way.”  
“Who was it?” I urged. She shook her head. “We can protect you, but we need to know.”  
She shook with cries. “Merlino,” she mumbled, “His name was Paul Merlino.”  
“Did you…” I trailed off, forgetting what I was going to say. She watched me, waiting for me to proceed.   
“We’ll get you to a safe-house, Mrs. Willmen,” Charles promised.  
We gathered more details, although it was mostly Charles who completed the interview. I felt foggy and stopped following the conversation. I could listen to the tape later, or someone would transcribe it. Either way, we would find Merlino.   
“Good work, Jake,” Charles congratulated as we returned to the bullpen.   
“Thanks. You too,” it didn’t sound sincere. It was embarrassing how I had slipped up, yet again, in front of Charles. The rush that came with cracking a case had almost immediately been doused. I didn’t understand how I had done chemo only twice and I was already this screwed up. How was I going to be after the last two sessions? How long would it take me to get back to normal? I had hoped that I could hide this from the squad until it was over, but things were getting worse by the day.   
“Jake,” I was shaken from my reverie, “Jake,” Rosa was stooped over my desk, calling my name.  
“Yeah, what’s up?”  
“For the fifth time, do you want to get pizza with us?” It was lunchtime already. I wondered how long I had actually been dissociating in the interrogation room. I thought it was only a few minutes that Charles and Tracy exchanged words, but when I glanced at the clock it was already 1:00 PM.   
I wasn’t hungry in the slightest and I kept falling into my thoughts. I ran a hand through my hair, but froze when I felt strands come loose. “No, that’s okay. Thanks though. I gotta go. Piss. In the bathroom,” I jumped up and raced to the restroom.   
I was glad to see there was no one there. I removed my hand from my head and surveyed all the hair that had fallen out. I shut my eyes tightly and held back tears. I didn’t understand why this was all happening to me. I knew it was childish to think that way, but I was alone anyways, no one to witness my wallowing, so what did it matter?  
I grabbed my stomach and swiveled, jumping to the nearest toilet. Bile poured from my mouth. I winced as it burned the sores on my tongue and cheeks. 

Charles was driving again; I didn’t trust myself not to lose concentration or pass out while on the road.  
We were going to investigate a break-in, pretty straight forward stuff. Someone broke into a Saks in the middle of the night. No cameras caught their face and they wore gloves so no fingerprints to go off either. We strolled in and walked up the glass counter, filled with sparkling, gold Bvlgari watches and glittering, gemmed Prada jewelry.   
“Hello,” a woman spoke. She was nothing short of gorgeous. She wore an elegant dress, her luscious brown hair flowed down her shoulders, and her long fingernails were painted without a single chip.   
“You are here about ze robbery?” she spoke with a thick French accent.   
“Yeah. Can we talk to the owner?”  
“Of course, pleaze wait one moment,” she pivoted and headed towards the back room.  
I turned to Charles. “I wish I talked like that. Oui, it eez in ze the croissant, magnifique, adieu, monsieur.”  
“You sound great, just like a Frenchman,” Charles told me earnestly.   
“Oooh, merci.”   
The woman appeared again and I blushed and hoped she hadn’t heard me.  
“Pleaze, follow me,” we did as we were told, strolling behind the counter and through the door into a spacious break room. One side had a collection of shoe boxes, but the rest was uncluttered, just a fridge, a table and chairs, and a couch. Someone sat at the table, wearing a scarf around their head. The woman who had led us back thanked us and left.  
We pulled up seats and saw that it was a pale, slender woman, cloaked in a fur coat.  
“Detectives,” she greeted.   
“Hi, Detective Peralta and Detective Boyle. We have some questions we would like to ask you.   
“I would be glad to answer those questions,” she smiled graciously.   
“Have you fired anyone recently?” Boyle asked.   
She contemplated the question. “Yes, there was Richard, but he would never do something like this. He was a gentle boy, but had personal issues he was unable to move past.”  
Charles and I bounced questions off of her. I focused attentively, closely following every word. When she spoke, it was like a complicated lesson in school that took all of my effort to comprehend.   
She was a pleasant woman with not much bad to say about anyone. She would often pause and rub her chin in thought. She ran her hand around her scarf and carefully removed it, revealing her bald head beneath. I gulped when I connected it all together. The paleness, the fragility, the baldness. She had cancer too.  
I lost the conversation and listened to the sounds of their voices as they exchanged words - Charles’s serious and the woman’s dulcet and breathy, until finally I heard Boyle ask to see the door that the perp entered through.   
“Jessica can show you,” said the woman.   
“Thank you for your time,” Charles stood.  
“Charles, I’ve actually got a few more questions. Can you check that out without me?”  
“Sure,” he replied before exiting the room.  
“How can I help you, Detective?”  
“You, um, you have...” I stumbled over the words.  
“I have cancer,” she smiled wistfully, “Yes.”  
“What kind?”  
“Leukemia, stage three.”  
“And you’re still working?” I fidgeted with my hands.  
“I love my work. I have owned this store for thirty years. It is my pride and joy. The cancer has taken a lot from me, but for as long as I am able, I will stay here.”  
I frowned. How was she able to continue working without completely falling apart? Would it be possible for me, even though my profession is more physically demanding and high-stakes? No. Captain Holt would never let me continue if he found out.   
“What kind do you have?” she asked.  
My eyes widened. “How did you know?”  
“I may not be a detective, but I know what it feels like and I have asked the same questions myself.”  
“Lung cancer. I found out two weeks ago.”  
“There is an adjustment period. Your friends can help you. You don’t have to do it alone, you know.”  
I shrugged, feeling defeated. This kind hearted, compassionate woman sitting in front of me was going to die. She had done all the chemo, she had gone through what I was, and she was still going to die. But at least she had her work, her family, her friends. I was on an island, populated singularly by my mother who seemed to already be mourning my death  
“I don’t know,” my voice was tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was sort of an in between, but the next one is so angsty it’s stupid, so maybe stick around at least for that!! Or don’t, I’m not your mom.


	7. Chapter 7

Today was my final day before the next session of chemo and it was hard to think about anything else. This same time tomorrow, I would be puking my guts out over a hospital toilet.

My schedule was messed up now; my two days off were in the middle of the week, but I had convinced Captain Holt to let me keep it that way without having to disclose any significant information.

I would get sick of the office if I was stuck for days without investigating a case on the field, but today it was for the best. Even if I didn't have a foggy brain, I wouldn't have been able to focus with my mind preoccupied with thoughts of tomorrow. I stared blankly down at a paper, holding a pen against it, and not moving at all.

"Hey, we're going to the bar tonight to celebrate Hitchcock's engagement," Amy said, "Are you coming?"

"Sure, yeah. What is this, his fifth marriage?"

"Sixth, I think."  
"It's a good excuse to get plastered," Rosa was leaning against Amy's desk.

"Real Gs don't need an excuse," I told her.

"And you're a real G?" she scoffed, "I've seen you listen to Shake It Off on repeat for an entire day."  
"That's a good song and I stand by it," I protested. Rosa rolled her eyes.

The day was uneventful. I ended up in the bathrooms a few times, but only dry heaved. For lunch, Rosa, Amy, and I stopped by a street vendor. I ordered a chili dog that sounded good at the time, but as soon as it reached my hands, turned repulsive. I tore off chunks as we ambled around the city and tossed them in garbage cans or gutters when they weren't looking. It seemed like every day I had more to hide from my friends.

It felt comforting to be at Shaw's. It was somewhere I had been going since I joined the nine-nine, all the bartenders knew us, and sometimes the owner would even give us a few free drinks. We cheers-ed to the happy couple, nothing too serious as no one truly expected the marriage to last, and all took a hefty sip of champagne. I tried not to cringe when my mouth stung. I was on my third glass and we had been here for roughly thirty minutes.

I had drunk beer every day this week and was sick of it, so I sat down at the bar and ordered two tequila shots and an orange soda. I hoped the bartender hadn't noticed how much I had already drunk tonight.

"Hey," Amy sat down beside me. She sounded tentative.

"Hey. Everything alright?"

"Yeah, no, everything's fine," she said hastily. "I was just…"  
"What's up?" the bartender set my drinks in front of me. I sipped the orange soda, but set it back down when it burned the sores.

Amy fiddled with her hands. "Remember when you said that you didn't want to date cops anymore?" my heart skipped a beat in my chest. I remembered distinctly when Amy had told me that she had sworn of dating coworkers and shattered all my hopes and I lamely said I felt the same way.

"Yeah."

She furrowed her eyebrows. "Did you really mean that?"

"Did you?"

She opened her mouth to speak when my phone rang. "Dammit- I mean, one sec, sorry," I accepted the call, "Jake Peralta," I normally didn't answer my phone so officially, but felt stilted since Amy was watching.

"Hey Jake, it's Detective Rogers," I recognized the name as one of the night shift officers, "Was just calling to tell you about your case, Tracy Wilken-"

"Willmen," I corrected.

"Yeah, Willmen. She died a couple hours ago."

"What?"

"I just thought you'd want to know. She was murdered at the safe-house."

My jaw dropped and my heart fell into my stomach. I snapped it closed, remembering the ulcers, and bit my lip hard. "How could this happen?"

"We don't know yet. I can call soon as we find out anything."

I meant to say Yes, please do, the second you even smell a clue, but I just hung up and set my phone on the counter.

"Jake? What happened? Are you okay?"

I grabbed one of the shots in front of me and downed it, ignoring the searing pain, then repeated the action with the remaining drink. I held two fingers up to the bartender to indicate I needed another round.

"Jake!" she exclaimed, startled by the binge drinking.

"Tracy was killed," I buried my face in my hands.

"I'm so sorry."

"They don't know what happened. If I hadn't interrogated her… If I hadn't gotten her to talk, this wouldn't have happened," the bartender returned and placed the two drinks on the counter in front of me.

"It's not your fault- Jake!" she cried again as I swallowed both shots consecutively.

"I should have protected her," my stomach hurt, "I should have taken her to a farther safe-house. Set up guards. I could have done something."  
"You can't blame yourself. You did everything right."  
I chuckled sarcastically. "She's dead because of me," Amy started to reply, but I abruptly stood and sauntered away. My legs felt warm from the alcohol and I stumbled, grabbing onto a nearby stool. Amy appeared beside me and clutched my arm to stop me from falling.

"Please wait," she begged, "Charles!" she called. Apparently he was nearby because he apparated in front of me.

"What's going on?" his voice was steeped with worry.

"Nothing, Tracy's dead cuzza me, but it's fine. Ask Amy."

"Oh no. Sit down, we can talk about this."

"Hafta go to the bathroom," I shook Amy off and pushed past him, clinging to a nearby table for purchase, then teetering to the restroom. They could discuss me while I was gone, I didn't care. Nothing they said could change the fact that Tracy was dead. Most likely brutally murdered.

We can't help you if you keep lying to us... Let us help you. The words echoed through my skull. I cracked her, I pressured her into it, I made this all happen.

I vomited on the floor in front of the bathroom, but it wasn't important. I stumbled to the nearest toilet. It was filthy - urine on the seat, shit on the porcelain, and (hopefully) water pooled on the grimy tile floor. I rested my arms around it and spewed out all of my drinks, from tequila to champagne, before emptying out the bile. My mouth and throat were on fire. I didn't bother holding back the tears anymore and allowed myself to weep, nuzzling my face into my arms. My body was wracked with sobs, my shoulders heaving up and down.

I cried for Tracy and then I cried for me. She was gone and it wasn't right that this fault fell on me, but I was convinced that it did.

The bathroom door creaked open. I heard footsteps walk up to the stall and I knew it wasn't a random patron, but someone looking for me. I wished I had closed the door. "Hey," Terry said, "Amy told me what happened."  
"Oh, it's fine," I said without picking up my head, "Bad guys get away, stuff's outta my control, remember?"

"I… Yeah, I remember, but it's okay if you're upset."

"Upset, no. I'm great. Never better," I smirked bitterly.

Terry shuffled. "I think we should talk."

"We can talk. We can talk about whatever you want. You know, I'm thinkin' about shaving my head like yours."

"Jake…"

"Jus' gimme a minute, I'll be done soon, 'kay?"

Terry sighed and reluctantly left. I held onto the walls as I uprighted myself. There was no way I was going to have this 'talk' tonight. I crept out of the bathroom, surveying the bar to make sure no one had noticed, and snuck around the edges. Amy, Charles, Terry, Rosa, and Holt all were standing in a circle with somber expressions. That was a problem for another day. I had the next two off, maybe they would all just forget.

I careened out the front door and the frigid air of oncoming fall slapped me in the face. "Hnnng," I groaned. If I weren't wasted right now, I would probably be shivering. I reached for my car keys before realizing I couldn't drive in this condition. I sifted in my jacket pocket for my phone, but came up empty. I must have left it in the bar, but it didn't matter; there was no way I was going back in there and facing the pitying looks of all my friends. My apartment was just a few blocks from here. By the time anyone noticed I was gone, I would already be passed out in bed and slobbering on my pillow.

I drunkenly lumbered down the sidewalk. My brain swam, but I liked it. It was better than those obsessive thoughts or, on the other end of the spectrum, extreme forgetfulness. Now I could just close my eyes and stumble down the street and not care about anything or anyone.

The roads were empty, the sky was dark, the sun had set long ago. I tried to peer up to see the moon, but the overcast night didn't permit it.

I breathed out a heavy sigh, watching the lines in the pavement pass as I walked by, when my shirt was seized roughly. Someone was dragging me, pulling me down the nearby alley. I lost my footing and flailed in an attempt to stand. "Hey! Lemme go!" I thrashed, but the hands did not release. I tried to reach over my shoulder and pull them away, but in the chaos, I couldn't locate them. They dragged me down the alley, the world growing blacker as we moved farther from the street lamps and lights of nearby buildings, until I could barely see.

I was flung against the brick wall behind a garbage bin so that we were hidden from any passersby on the street. My back slamming against the hard surface sent a wave of pain through me, causing my back to spasm. I fell to the ground and hit the pavement forcefully and the impact stung my tailbone. I scrambled to stand but slipped and fell again, the tender skin throbbing from the collision.

There was a figure standing above me, face obscured by the dark night and unlit alley, dressed in all black. I instinctively reached to my hip to draw my gun, but when I touched my belt, I felt it wasn't there. I cursed, remembering that I had left it back at the precinct earlier tonight.

Something glinted in my attacker's hands. A knife. Fear pulsed through me, my heart beating so vigorously that it shook my entire body. I shouldn't have been so scared. I'm a cop, this was something I'd seen before. Just some half-wit brandishing a knife. But in my drunken state, feeling like a walking corpse from having emptied out my insides in the bar toilet, and too unstable to stand, the fear struck me viscerally.

"Empty your pockets," the mugger croaked.

"I'm a cop!" I shouted indignantly.

"Shut the fuck up, Pig. Do you want me to kill you?"

I stared with my mouth open. This must be what it feels like to be a regular citizen. Vulnerable, defenseless, helpless. This shouldn't be happening to me. I had trained for years, spent a decade on the force, prepared to deal with this very situation.

"I said give me your wallet! If you yell, I'll kill you," the assailant moved in closer, brandishing the knife dramatically to emphasize the threat.

I didn't move. My body was shaking with the force of my heartbeat. It would be a huge defeat to give them my wallet. I didn't think I could ever tell the squad. But there was nowhere to go; nowadays I could barely stand when I was sober, forget about wasted, and there was no one around to rescue me.

But, as shameful as it was, I was scared and I didn't have any options. I took a shaky hand and reached into my pocket, withdrawing the ancient, worn wallet I had had for years, filled with expired coupons, empty gift cards, my debit and credit cards, and a tiny bit of cash. They snatched it out of my hands.

"Phone," they demanded.

"I don't have it."  
"I don't believe you. Turn out your pockets," I paused, once again humiliated at having to follow this crook's orders, "Now!"

"No," I said softly, "No!" I shouted this time. I reached for his arm, trying to shove it to the side so that his knife was no longer aimed at me. He resisted, thrusting himself hard against the touch and then tripping. He fell into me. His knife plunged into my left side. I screamed out. There was a tingle and then a feeling like an electric shock. The perpetrator ripped the knife out and jumped backwards. From the sparing streetlight light that caught their face, I could see their expression shift into horror. They stumbled backwards, almost tripping over their own feet, then swiveled and sprinted down the alleyway. My side burned like fire spreading through my gut.

Adrenaline like a drug surged through my body and I bounced up, immediately losing my balance and plunging back to the Earth. I couldn't feel it anymore, or any other part of my body, besides the wild rhythm in my chest.

I reached for the wound and felt the blood draining from it. My fingers became slick. I pressed down, but quickly released as my vision clouded. I raised my hand and peered down, trying to get a look at the gash, but was unable to make anything out beneath the torn fabric of my shirt.

I needed to get home. I was only two blocks away now, it wouldn't take long. I knew that as soon as the adrenaline wore off, the pain would set in and I needed to get home before then or else I would pass out in the street.

I steeled myself and gripped the wall, wrenching myself up. I stood with almost all of my weight supported by the bricks and crawled back to the sidewalk.

I was so close; I knew I could make it if I just held onto the sides of buildings and didn't let myself spiral. You've been through worse, I told myself. Although right now, I couldn't remember those times.

I covered the wound with one hand and supported myself with the other. As the minutes passed and I got closer to the apartment, the pain intensified. It was a sharp, burning pain. Much worse than when I was initially stabbed. I didn't care about the tears falling down my cheeks. I hadn't cried when I fell during the foot chase nor when I was hit by a car, but this pain, mixed with the humiliation and stress of the past two weeks was enough to break me down.

I finally reached the apartment building. After an agonizingly slow elevator ride, I reached my front door and held tight to the handle, throwing it open and falling onto the floor.

All the lights were on, but I hadn't noticed them seeping out from beneath the door in my stupor. Someone was on me in a flash, holding onto my back. "Jake!" I recognized it as Rosa's voice.  
"Oh my God!" my mother screeched.

I grumbled, unable to form words. "Stabbed," I managed.

Rosa flipped me over and I winced from the jostling. The wound ached throughout the bottom half of my torso. "We have to get to a hospital," she said commandingly. She held me beneath my armpits and lifted me. If I weren't only a quarter conscious, I would be impressed with her strength. She propped me beneath her and wrapped an arm around me, allowing me to stand with my weight on her. I did my best to support myself, but ended up letting her mostly carry me.

We stumbled to the elevator. My mom walked behind us, babbling nonstop. "What happened? Please don't die! My baby boy," she jabbered on. I tried to tell her to chill, but it came out garbled and quiet. We made it to the elevator and out the apartment building's entrance.

"I need you to drive - I have to call the squad." Rosa told my mom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I pretty much am losing my passion for this story again :^/ I wanted to put this out since I already wrote it, but I'm not immensely proud of it and it's not heavily edited. Might be a while before I update again. I'm sorry.


	8. Chapter 8

The colorful marketplace bustled with people all looking for a good deal. The vendors peddling their goods sat on the boardwalk edged up against the sand of the beach. I could smell the ocean, the fish that lay in baskets, and the spice of unfamiliar foods. The seagulls screamed above, eyeing the mackerel and tuna hungrily, but not daring to swoop into the crowd.   
Charles skipped ahead of me; there was not enough room to walk side-by-side in the mass of people. He looked back to ensure I was still following and smiled. He said something, but I couldn’t hear over the orchestra of voices.  
A sharp high-pitched tone pierced my ears. It sounded like it was coming from a few paces behind me. I swiveled to find the perpetrator, but couldn’t locate the source. Everyone seemed busy, wrapped up in their own worlds, no indication that any of them had made the offending noise.   
Behind one of the merchant carts something strange caught my eye. There was a face, peeking out. It stood partially behind the cart, but bent sideways to see around it. It was hard to make out the features from this distance and between the incessant sway of the crowd. It was ghostly white. Its eyes were shadowed, like the black fur on a panda’s face, only dark circles visible. The mouth was a straight line, like that of a cartoon. It was flat and emitted no emotion. It wore an elongated, black trench coat that fell down to its feet and with sleeves long enough to hide its hands. Gigantic, black pointed shoes peeked out from beneath the cape. I stepped forward to try and get a better view.  
“Jake!” I snapped my head around when I heard Charles panicked shout. He stood facing me, with a man pointing a pistol at his head. Charles’s mouth opened and he yelled, “Hurry!” but it was like someone else’s voice coming out of him. My stomach twisted. I sprinted towards him, throwing myself at the gun-toting man and bringing him to the ground. The gun spun out of his hand and across the boardwalk. I glanced over my shoulder at where the haunting figure had been, but it had disappeared.  
…  
The sky was turning sherbet orange, harbingering the onset of evening. I had to flow through the bodies on the sidewalk as they took little note of my existence, not bothering to move out of my way or stop when they nearly knocked into me. The street was packed with cars. A dozen yellow taxis interspersed in the cluster juxtaposed the mundane colors of the other vehicles.  
Someone honked beside me and I nearly toppled over. It was strident and offensive and continued on-and-off. No one else even turned their heads at the sound.  
I reached a corner and prepared to cross the street when a niggling feeling bugged me in my gut. I looked to the left and saw it: the eerie creature with its dark eye-holes and milky skin. It stood partially behind a building, watching me, but its line of a mouth was slightly downturned now. It struck a discomfort inside of me and unease rose like water filling a bucket. I began to stride towards it when a feminine voice beside me screamed, “Help! He took my purse!” My head shot to the side and I saw the culprit sprinting down the sidewalk. I took off, bleeding between heedless bodies. I saw him turn down an alley and I chased close behind. When I turned the corner, he was standing in a doorframe on the side of the building. Behind him, the room is dark, no light shone out. He looked remorseful and spoke, “He’s not breathing,” but it was the voice of a frightened woman. He stepped inside the building and the door shut behind him. I ran up to it, grabbed the door handle, and fruitlessly tried to pry it open. After a minute passed, I accepted defeat.   
I stepped back and made a move to walk back from where I had come, but halted when I saw the pale almost-man staring at me. When it noticed that I had seen it, it ducked behind the building, out of sight.  
…  
Rosa and I stood beside each other in the bullpen, waiting for the elevator doors to open. Her arms were folded across her chest and she wore her signature leather jacket. She shot me a look when she noticed my ogling.   
The doors opened and we walked in tandem. The metal doors slid closed and I pressed the button marked “1”, eliciting a small ding. The room rumbled and then began to quake. The ding sounded again, but this time cacophonous and shrill, on repeat. I reached for the wall and clung while the floor shook beneath.   
The sound grew louder. I attempted to cover an ear with one hand, but it didn’t remotely muffle the screeching.  
Rosa stood still, arms still crossed, with a bored expression painted on her face. “What’s happening?” I asked, but my voice was drowned out.  
She twisted her head and looked into my eyes. “He might not make it,” her voice was guttural and manly as though someone was voicing over her.   
The convulsions abruptly stopped. I panted and tried to get a hold of my anxiety. The elevator doors glided open to reveal a floor I had never seen before. It had furniture that had been covered in white sheets, all the lights were off, and spiderwebs decorated the corners. “What is this place?” I wondered aloud. I shuffled out of the cab. Roaches scurried beneath the furniture when they heard my footsteps.  
I rotated to look at Rosa, but she was no longer there. She was replaced by the spectral figure. Its frown is now deep and funereal. It was only a few yards away. I paced towards it, but the doors slid shut and the creature was gone once more.  
…  
I stood barefoot in the middle of my apartment. I rubbed my toes on the floor and felt the texture of the old carpet against my skin. Patterns of rectangles and rhombuses made from sunbeams breaking through the interstices of the blinds illuminated the floor around me.  
It was damp and humid. The smell of mold hung in the air. I held out a hand and felt the weight of the air against it.  
There was a knock at the door in front of me. I stepped forward and opened it, revealing a somber Captain Holt.   
“Captain?” he didn’t speak, just studied me. “Someone has been following me,” I informed him. Initially, I was glad to have said it out loud. The situation had left me feeling alienated and endangered, but when he remained impassive, utterly unmoved by the proclamation, my heart sank. “What is happening?” my voice was small and scared. I was a child, unsure if I was in trouble or not, at the mercy of my parent’s whim.  
He spoke, “It’s up to him now,” but a woman’s voice echoed from him.  
“What is?” I felt desperate for an explanation, but he only swiveled to the side and walked away without another word. I swallowed and noticed how dry my throat was.   
I closed the door and as it banged shut, the fire alarm began to scream. I clapped my hand over my ears, but it didn’t soften the shrieks.   
Through the noise, there was a pounding at the door. I felt there was something wrong on the other side - something unnatural that I didn’t want to see, but with a shaky hand, I twisted the doorknob anyway.  
The ashy being stood only a foot in front of me. I could see through the shadows that covered its eyes now. They were pitch black and brimming with tears. They streaked down the figure's face. Its mouth is no longer a frown, but open and shaped like a howl.  
I resisted the urge to take a step back. We stared at each other for several minutes. As time passed, horror filled up those haunting pupils more and more. The streams of tears that fell down its cheeks turned into rivers, then waterfalls. The bottom half of its face was covered in free-flowing tears.  
It moved its head forward. I steeled myself, refusing to flinch. It raised an arm. The sleeve that covered its hands fell down and revealed a claw like that of a bird, but completely blanched except for the yellow-tinted talons. It smelled like burning.  
It felt like my ears were bleeding from the fire alarm’s wailing. Its claw encroached me, cupped and ready to place on my cheek. I was sick with fear and dread, but unwilling to waver. It wouldn’t leave me alone until it did whatever it had come to do, so I must find out what that was.  
The claw touched me. It was scratchy and leathery; its fingers itched my face. The nails lightly scratched my cheeks as they ran across my face, but it didn’t hurt. The figure dipped down, its face nearing me with painstaking slowness. Its mouth broadened so that it no longer had a chin, just a massive, open gape. I watched as its eyes grew in its head. They widened, saturated with terror, until they took up half of its face.   
I suddenly realized that it was scared - petrified - of me.   
I ripped away, stumbling backwards, and the creature did the same. It fell back, nearly tripping to the floor.  
I blinked and it was gone. I blinked again and everything was pitch-black. I blinked once more and finally the caustic light of reality assaulted my eyes as I woke.


End file.
